Between Time
by KateToast
Summary: The time between waking and sleeping is a good time for remembering. Futureish one shot.


**Disclaimer**: Zoey 101 is not owned by moi.

**A/N**: I love taking teens from childrens' shows and placing them in the future. And for some reason I'm a little obsessed with Zoey 101 right now, so these kids are the targets of my writing. This is random, inspired by a similar moment I had the other day really early in the morning before my alarm went off, where I was half-asleep, but half-awake.

_Between Time_

**XXX**

It's the moment between waking and sleeping that you find most frustrating.

Really, it's the noises; you can always distinguish what's going on around you, your conscience awake and working but your body not yet caught up. Everything is louder than it should be and your senses are heightened to the point of annoyance, because every squeak and footstep and whisper is magnified and you feel like you'll never fall back asleep, never regain the calm and quiet that comes with your eyelids shut and your ears deaf and your mind focused on your subconscious, trying to sort out your every-day problems in dreams.

But sometimes it's nice, this time in between darkness and daylight, because it gives you a chance to think, not always coherently, about things. You can let your thoughts wander to anything, anything at all, and you don't worry about being disturbed, because people know better than to wake you when you're asleep by now.

Once and a while, while you're in this state, your dreams keep going, mixed in with the reality around you. You're at boarding school, sitting on the lush, green grass with the sun warming your face, or you're resting on one of the over-stuffed couches in the lounge, surrounded by people you care about. But then there are giggles in the background, shushing, the tinkling of metal lightly hitting another piece of metal, steps being taken carefully and precisely as if to keep you from waking, and none of these have to do with your dreams.

As your mind escapes you, suddenly you see flashes, almost like a slideshow of pictures with animated moments thrown in, and it all looks like a project you would have had to do for one of your classes in high school. Images rush by, some familiar, some surprisingly forgotten. You, lying on a beach with your friends; you, sitting in a coffee shop on a rainy day with your boyfriend; you, in a blue dress fixing your hair in a mirror; you, accepting your high school diploma; you, eleven and kissing a boy for the first time; you, standing as Maid of Honor at one of your best friend's weddings; you, receiving an A on a test; you, staring into the eyes of a little girl, their blue color matching your own.

They're unorganized and out of date, and you don't even know why any of them come to you, but you can't stop it, because the pillows are cushioning your head and the blankets are smothering you just right and you think if you moved a muscle, you'd ruin the perfect feeling of contentment. So you skip down memory lane, sail through dream-land, push away reality.

Sometimes, if you're more awake than asleep, you start a list of things you need to do that day, of people you need to call (Mom, Nicole, the babysitter, your sick secretary), of events you need to attend (morning meeting with your staff, afternoon meeting at the hospital), of places you have to be (evening ballet lesson to cheer from the sidelines, home to help with a book report), of appointments that must be kept (quick run to the eye-doctor during lunch break), all the while considering what you could make for dinner that night (pasta? chicken?). If you weren't already in bed, you'd collapse from exhaustion.

More images float by: you, entering room 101 of Brenner Hall at Pacific Coast Academy for the first time; you, searching through magazine after magazine and store after store in search of the perfect wedding dress; you, at a friend from PCA's New York City apartment, sipping on a cocktail as you reminisce with your long-time pals; you, sitting in your old home in Louisiana watching a movie with your younger brother; you, listening to a child's heartbeat with a stethoscope.

The sounds from the real world keep growing fainter, and then louder again, never disappearing completely, and never fully hitting your ears at their total volume. You aren't sure if the words and phrases you hear are coming from around you, or from your dreams, but you don't want to open your eyes and check, just yet, because that means you'll have to start your day.

The memories keep assaulting your undistracted mind's eye: you, scraping your knee after falling off of your bicycle; you, sitting through your very first college course at Harvard; you, baking cookies with your mother; you, breaking up with your boyfriend for the third time in one week; you, making dinner for your husband for your one-year anniversary; you, watching your little brother get married; you, skimming the shelves of baby books at Borders; you, giving a little boy a flu shot; you, searching for your daughter's lost puppy in the middle of the night with a neighbor.

The shushing is becoming louder, and it seems that having to wake up and face the day is immanent. You blink your eyes slowly at first, because the sun is too bright, and once your gaze isn't as bleary, you check to see the time. It's seven o'clock a.m.; it's time to start.

The bed shifts as a weight pushes down the other side, and you lift yourself up a little on your elbows to get a better look. Your husband is sitting, putting on his socks while trying to keep the little girl with blue eyes in front of him from making too much noise. You smile immediately at the sight.

The two notice your movements and both get guilty looks on their faces.

"Why didn't you wake me up?" you ask tiredly, moving some hair out of your vision.

Your husband shrugs as he leans across the bed to kiss your cheek. "You looked peaceful. You've been working too hard lately," he says, quietly.

The little girl jumps up onto the bed beside you, the Jack Russell Terrier with a tinkling collar nestling himself into the comforter. "Mommy, Daddy made pancakes an' he _burned_ 'em."

"_Did_ he?" you question with interest, smoothing down your daughter's light hair before turning an accusatory eye on your husband. "Well, that just goes to show that Daddy needs to take those cooking lessons Mommy's been suggesting for _years_."

"Do I hafta go to school today?" the child asks in a typical whiny-kid voice.

"If I have to go to work then you have to go to school," you tell her, swinging your feet off of the bed to meet the chilly hardwood floor.

"Go finish eating your breakfast," your husband instructs, and the little girl bounds out of the room, the dog trotting behind in her wake.

"You have a good dream?"

Your eyebrows crinkle, confused. "What?"

"You were smiling in your sleep. You must've been dreaming about something good," he explains.

You shrug casually and stand, stretching. As you pass by him, you pat his shoulder. "Just reminiscing a little I guess, _dear_."

He follows you out of the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen, where your daughter is chewing on an especially rubbery pancake. Your husband pours each of you a cup of coffee and hands yours to you, his eyes twinkling at the little girl.

The moment between waking and sleeping may be the most frustrating, but the moments right before and after are the most gratifying.

**XXX**

_End._


End file.
